It was no wonder the tenor was excited.
In this world, even papermaking has yet to appear. In other words, literary creation is still stuck in the extremely simplified era of historical chronicles.
Throughout history, both in the East and the West, before the invention of papermaking and printing, the cost of writing was so high that most resources went into the more practical and urgently needed tasks of compiling calendars and historical records. Whatever remained would be used for preserving poetry.
Stories were passed down orally, with almost none being written into books.
For example, in the Great Celestial Empire, it was not until the Tang dynasty that tale literature appeared. By the Ming and Qing dynasties, various storybooks finally became widespread.
The Four Great Classics all came from the Ming and Qing.
Aside from poetry—which was perfected in the Tang and Song, leaving later scholars helpless and forced to turn to drama and storytelling—the crucial issue was still the cost of writing.
How many words did Zuo Si's Rhapsody on the Three Capitals even contain during the Jin dynasty?
Yet it caused a paper shortage in Luoyang.
Even if you dropped ten Cao Xueqins into the Jin dynasty, they still could not write Dream of the Red Chamber.
The bankrupt Cao family could not even afford paper!
Thus, before Dany "invented" Dragon Paper and True Dragon Printing, the world of A Song of Ice and Fire also relied on a simple, straightforward historiographic style.
Writing history naturally requires simplicity, clarity, and directness.
As a result, although maesters were learned enough to "fill five carts," their novels and dramas still came out dry and flavorless.
It was like the act of procreation: the same "yang-above-yin-below" position repeated for thousands of years.
Then suddenly, one day, out popped the Dragon Queen of Slaver's Bay with her 108 Arts of Spring Cries. How could those dry, flavorless people not be astonished?
Literary technique, like technology, progresses constantly. If you do not believe it, go read the great works of antiquity. Aside from ornate diction, beautiful phrasing, and vivid characters, their transitions, plot design, conflicts, and word padding may actually be inferior to those written by top-tier online authors today.
Yes, word padding—do not assume the classics were free of filler. There has never been a novelist on earth who did not pad words.
Sometimes authors do it deliberately, but more often they do it without realizing it.
Take Journey to the West for example. Wu Cheng'en certainly did not want to write filler.
Yet the book constantly repeats this pattern: Tang Sanzang is captured by a demon, Wukong fights but cannot win, and goes to ask someone for help. Even though the readers already know Wukong's experiences, the author still has Wukong retell—at great length—how he lost his master, fought the monster, and encountered various troubles.
If that is not filler, what is?
And before Wukong, Bajie, or Sha Monk fight a demon, they often announce their names and origins in a long rhyming boast, recounting every major event of their lives from birth to the present—smooth, catchy, and impressive.
The first time you hear it, it is astonishing. But by the second, third, or nth time, you start skipping ahead.
Wukong and Bajie not only introduce themselves but also their weapons. The origins and functions of the Golden-Hooped Staff and the Nine-Toothed Rake are also turned into rhyming jingles, repeated again and again.
To put it bluntly, the entire purpose of these scenes is one thing: showing off.
How great I am, how great my weapon is—what else could it be?
If an online author were writing it, he would show off too, and probably more frequently than old Wu.
When facing a demon, not showing off at least ten times would be an insult to such a well-designed villain.
But online authors at least vary their methods, using all sorts of wild ideas. Even if they introduce names or show off weapons, it happens only once.
At most, they would use Wukong and the Golden-Hooped Staff's performance in battle to show off.
For example: today the staff topples a tree; tomorrow it knocks over a small mountain; the next day it smashes a continent; the day after that it shatters a planet; then a solar system, a galaxy, the universe, the multiverse.
Finally, it breaks through computer and phone screens and lands directly on the heads of the readers, leaving them dizzy enough to vote for the book.
Ahem, back to the topic.
In short, the Dragon Queen's non-flat, non-linear style of storytelling was groundbreaking in this world where poetry and drama rely mainly on plain narration. She could barely be considered an "otherworldly Shakespeare," inspiring many imitators.
Ghis slaveholders, maesters at the Citadel, opera editors in the Free Cities—all studied the plays from Slaver's Bay and the Dragon Queen's methods.
Even the sensitive-minded dwarf let go of his suspicion toward the Dragon Queen and sighed, "Roshy's Dream is brilliantly crafted. It never says a single false word about the Faceless Men, yet makes every viewer hate them to the bone."
"Yes! Dr. Wogreave has truly surpassed his predecessors. Roshy's Dream is destined to be a masterpiece passed down through the ages," the tenor agreed.
"But why does the Citadel hate the Faceless Men so much? They slander them through fiction," the dwarf asked in puzzlement.
"You really don't know about the conflict between the Citadel and Braavos?" the tenor asked in surprise.
"I've heard bits of it," Tyrion nodded. "But that little conflict is irrelevant. What matters is that both sides violated guest right, and both want to pin the 'Second Rat Cook' title on the other. Yet after so long, they still haven't settled down?"
"It is very hard to end. Dr. Wogreave even swore that 'until the Faceless Men are disbanded, the holy war will never cease.'"
"To such an extent?!" the dwarf exclaimed, stunned.
"It had quieted down for a while, but recently—" the fat singer hesitated, glancing at the dwarf, and stopped talking.
"Today I am only an art lover. We are discussing art; status does not matter," the dwarf said.
"Not long after your uncle died, the Citadel issued its vow of unending holy war and became very active."
"Oh." The dwarf nodded with dawning understanding. "I see. Those cunning bastards really know how to calculate. But surely the Faceless Men are more frightening than my whor— than my dear sister?"
The tenor cast a glance at the knight patrolling in the corner with an Astapor mutt on a leash and whispered, "The Citadel keeps many dogs as well."
"Everyone knows already?" Tyrion's ugly face twisted.
"Of course. The world has long suffered under the Faceless Men." The tenor's voice dropped even lower, thin as a mosquito's buzz.
"Does it work?" Tyrion became interested.
"Very effective. According to rumors, in just the past half year, in the cities of Myr and Tyrosh alone, at least three Faceless Men assassinations were discovered beforehand. They even caught one, though he killed himself."
"By the Seven, it's that effective?" Tyrion was shocked.
The tenor looked left and right. Seeing that no one besides the dwarf's companion—Princess Arianne—was paying attention, he smiled and said,"Specially trained hunting dogs can detect the scent of blood. They can also distinguish the smell of unfamiliar people and are especially sensitive to killing intent.
Think about it. The Faceless Men peel off another person's face alive and wear it. How could they possibly hide the scent of blood or the aura of killing?Even if he is highly skilled and manages to mask the blood and killing intent, the first time he appears, how could a dog fail to notice a stranger?
It's said that some merchant in Myr saw a business opportunity and began secretly training special hounds. They made people walk past the dogs in a line.
Out of a hundred people in the queue, they mixed in one stranger. If the hound could sniff him out, it lived. If not, it died.
They used the surviving hounds as breeding stock. Their puppies were trained again. Then a thousand people queued up, mixed with one stranger who had even taken a bath.Repeating this process, one day, no stranger—Faceless Man or otherwise—would be able to approach the 'Houndbane of the Faceless.'"
"That makes sense!"
As they were speaking, a new stage play began. The gloomy lighting, eerie background music, and avant-garde Cthulhu-style stage design and props immediately drew the dwarf's attention.
A tall, thin man with a black beard and a bald head stepped onto the stage, accompanied by fifteen musicians—ten more than the fat tenor had.
"He's Jackson of Pentos, known as the Emperor of Opera," the fat man said sourly.
"Under the shadow of the tower, the King of Darkness holds a list."
Jackson's booming voice reached even the guards in the deepest corners of the hall, yet those nearest the stage did not find it loud or grating.
"He whispers softly—a name!" The drummers struck a slow, somber rhythm, while the faint sound of flutes resembled ghosts wailing in the night wind.
"A name, a dead soul," the musicians chanted in unison.
"He dines on blood and slaughter. The castle is filled with models of severed heads, each one wearing a face. Thousands upon thousands of names, thousands upon thousands of faces…" Jackson raised his arm high, his tone lilting as he sang loudly.
"One name, one face, ten thousand upon ten thousand!" The musicians swayed as they chanted in deep voices.
"Cruel Maegor, Fireball Quentyn, Prince Robert of the Rain of Arrows…"
The drummers quickened their pace as Jackson rapidly recited name after name. Some were well-known, others nearly unknown in Westeros.
"What does that mean?" the dwarf asked, puzzled.
"The title of this play is The God of Death's List. Those names all belonged to people assassinated by the King of Darkness. They were all famous.
The reason you haven't heard them is simply that they're from long ago—or from foreign lands," Arianne said.
"You've heard of them?" The dwarf was surprised.
Arianne nodded and rubbed her arms. "None of them sing as well as the Emperor of Opera. I've got goosebumps all over. It feels wonderful."
"Wasn't Maegor supposed to have killed himself? Why blame the Faceless Men too?"
"Maegor's suicide was only speculation. Think about it. He had Balerion and was so cruel—would someone like that really kill himself? Someone must have hired a Faceless Man," Arianne said.
"Uh… even the Citadel believed Maegor killed himself. How—"
Arianne cut him off. "The Citadel has now overturned Maegor's case. The God of Death's List was also written by Dr. Wargrave. Maegor's death at the hands of a Faceless Man was just officially announced by the Citadel."
"What about Fireball Quentyn?" the dwarf asked again.
Quentyn Ball, one of Daemon Blackfyre's two most important commanders (the other being Bittersteel Aegor), died to an archer's arrow right before the decisive battle, at a riverside while washing in the river.
The problem was that Quentyn was leading an army to the battlefield. He was surrounded by his own men, with no enemies nearby, and they never even found the person who shot him.
"The Citadel believes the Faceless Men replaced one of Fireball Quentyn's subordinates. I think it makes perfect sense," Arianne said.
"It's certainly more reasonable than the earlier theory that he died to some unknown archer, but…" The dwarf's expression twisted.
The Myrish tenor suddenly said, "Dr. Wargrave has another play, titled The Nonexistent Brynden.
The doctor believes that before the Blackfyre Rebellion, Lord Bloodraven Brynden was already replaced by a Faceless Man, and that Daemon Blackfyre and his two sons were killed by Faceless Men as well."
"That completely denies the existence of Brynden Rivers. It's absurd." The dwarf shook his head repeatedly.
(End of chapter)
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